The Book Thief(6)

A PHOTO OF HIMMEL STREET

The buildings appear to be glued together, mostly small houses

and apartment blocks that look nervous.

There is murky snow spread out like carpet.

There is concrete, empty hat-stand trees, and gray air.





A man was also in the car. He remained with the girl while Frau Heinrich disappeared inside. He never spoke. Liesel assumed he was there to make sure she wouldnt run away or to force her inside if she gave them any trouble. Later, however, when the trouble did start, he simply sat there and watched. Perhaps he was only the last resort, the final solution.



After a few minutes, a very tall man came out. Hans Hubermann, Liesels foster father. On one side of him was the medium-height Frau Heinrich. On the other was the squat shape of Rosa Hubermann, who looked like a small wardrobe with a coat thrown over it. There was a distinct waddle to her walk. Almost cute, if it wasnt for her face, which was like creased-up cardboard and annoyed, as if she was merely tolerating all of it. Her husband walked straight, with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He rolled his own.



The fact was this:



Liesel would not get out of the car.



Was ist los mit dem Kind? Rosa Hubermann inquired. She said it again. Whats wrong with this child? She stuck her face inside the car and said, Na, komm. Komm.



The seat in front was flung forward. A corridor of cold light invited her out. She would not move.



Outside, through the circle shed made, Liesel could see the tall mans fingers, still holding the cigarette. Ash stumbled from its edge and lunged and lifted several times until it hit the ground. It took nearly fifteen minutes to coax her from the car. It was the tall man who did it.



Quietly.



There was the gate next, which she clung to.



A gang of tears trudged from her eyes as she held on and refused to go inside. People started to gather on the street until Rosa Hubermann swore at them, after which they reversed back, whence they came.





A TRANSLATION OF

ROSA HUBERMANNS ANNOUNCEMENT

What are you assholes looking at?





Eventually, Liesel Meminger walked gingerly inside. Hans Hubermann had her by one hand. Her small suitcase had her by the other. Buried beneath the folded layer of clothes in that suitcase was a small black book, which, for all we know, a fourteen-year-old grave digger in a nameless town had probably spent the last few hours looking for. I promise you, I imagine him saying to his boss, I have no idea what happened to it. Ive looked everywhere. Everywhere! Im sure he would never have suspected the girl, and yet, there it wasa black book with silver words written against the ceiling of her clothes:





THE GRAVE DIGGERS HANDBOOK

A Twelve-Step Guide to

Grave-Digging Success

Published by the Bayern Cemetery Association





The book thief had struck for the first timethe beginning of an illustrious career.





GROWING UP A SAUMENSCH





Yes, an illustrious career.



I should hasten to admit, however, that there was a considerable hiatus between the first stolen book and the second. Another noteworthy point is that the first was stolen from snow and the second from fire. Not to omit that others were also given to her. All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon.



When she came to write her story, she would wonder exactly when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything. Was it when she first set eyes on the room with shelves and shelves of them? Or when Max Vandenburg arrived on Himmel Street carrying handfuls of suffering and Hitlers Mein Kampf ? Was it reading in the shelters? The last parade to Dachau? Was it The Word Shaker? Perhaps there would never be a precise answer as to when and where it occurred. In any case, thats getting ahead of myself. Before we make it to any of that, we first need to tour Liesel Memingers beginnings on Himmel Street and the art of saumensching:



Upon her arrival, you could still see the bite marks of snow on her hands and the frosty blood on her fingers. Everything about her was undernourished. Wirelike shins. Coat hanger arms. She did not produce it easily, but when it came, she had a starving smile.



Her hair was a close enough brand of German blond, but she had dangerous eyes. Dark brown. You didnt really want brown eyes in Germany around that time. Perhaps she received them from her father, but she had no way of knowing, as she couldnt remember him. There was really only one thing she knew about her father. It was a label she did not understand.





A STRANGE WORD

Kommunist





Shed heard it several times in the past few years.



Communist.



There were boardinghouses crammed with people, rooms filled with questions. And that word. That strange word was always there somewhere, standing in the corner, watching from the dark. It wore suits, uniforms. No matter where they went, there it was, each time her father was mentioned. She could smell it and taste it. She just couldnt spell or understand it. When she asked her mother what it meant, she was told that it wasnt important, that she shouldnt worry about such things. At one boardinghouse, there was a healthier woman who tried to teach the children to write, using charcoal on the wall. Liesel was tempted to ask her the meaning, but it never eventuated. One day, that woman was taken away for questioning. She didnt come back.